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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25667821">A Thousand Nights With You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/casastella/pseuds/casastella'>casastella</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Feels, Fluff, Ghosts, Intentional Spelling Errors, Late Victorian England era, M/M, Semi learns to love them too, Shirabu loves stories, don't let the major character death scare you too much pls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:16:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,506</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25667821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/casastella/pseuds/casastella</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eita asks, “You are not afraid of the ghost that apparently haunts this place?” </p><p> “Are you?”</p><p> “There are worse things to be afraid of than ghosts.”</p><p> The boy seems momentarily taken aback, speechless, before his dry lips thin into a smile. “I’m Kenjirou.”</p><p> “I’m Eita.”</p><p>~</p><p> Drenched and homeless, Eita has hit rock bottom with no way to climb back up. Then he meets Kenjirou at midnight in an empty, haunted library at the lowest moment of his life and somehow, it become his most treasured.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Semi Eita/Shirabu Kenjirou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>123</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Thousand Nights With You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm so sorry.</p><p>Edit: I now have a proper <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/73QFw78D8AnAddnc96Eccj">playlist</a> if anyone is interested.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>906</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There once was a young apprentice whittler who carved majestic sculpchers of soaring birds and prancing fawns. Though his carvings were more beautiful than even his own master’s, he was not allowed display any of his crafts. For many years the boy thought it due to his master’s jealousy but one summer evening, he would finally discover the truth. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> The boy sits alone at midnight in the vast, empty library, a lantern casting a small circle of light on the book in front of him. Ink stains splatter on the paper and the dark red-wood table but his hand never stops moving, fountain never stops flowing.  </p><p> Some say he’s a scholar. Some say he’s a ghost.</p><p> Some say he’s both.</p><p> But the boy seems neither a scholar nor a ghost. He wears a thin vest over a long-sleeved shirt, both as dirty as a chimney sweep’s broom but just as tangible. If his hair obscures his eyes, he does not seem to notice, nor does he hear Eita step out from the shadows until he stands at the end of the long table that seems to be reserved for this boy alone, even when the librarians allow in more patrons than they should when rain weeps over the city – like now. A flash of lightning announces the arrival of thunder that claps against the earth, walls reverberating.</p><p> The boy looks up, surprised to find that he is not alone. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says.</p><p> Eita nods. “Neither are you.”</p><p> The boy looks at his work and looks up again through his jagged fringe. “I have nowhere else to be.”</p><p> “Neither do I.”</p><p> They stare at each other for a moment: Eita at the boy’s petite stature, at the pale, slender fingers wrapped tight around a pen; and the boy at Eita’s clothes, dripping a puddle onto the polished floor.</p><p> “May I sit?” Eita asks, just to be polite but he’s already pulling out the chair opposite the boy. </p><p> “As long as you don’t interrupt me.”</p><p> The boy continues and Eita watches as ink runs across the page in awkward letters and terrible spelling. Sometime later, he falls asleep to the sound of rain pattering on the roof and when he wakes up, the boy is gone and the warmth of the lantern the only sign that he was ever there.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>917</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Once upon a time, there lived an old woman by the lake, alone. She had no children nor grandchildren, no one to call family. The villegers all thought her a witch but no matter how much she was shunned, she never failed to knit the orphans sweaters and scarves to keep warm each winter.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> The boy sits at the end of the table again, alone. Eita didn’t see where he came from because he was hiding behind two carts full of books on archaeology. But he did hear everyone shuffle out as the sun began to set, the librarians hastily calling for patrons to leave and drawing the doors shut behind them. The boy is already there when Eita crawls out but the lantern beside him remains unlit for the time being.</p><p> Eita has no reason to talk to him again but he also has no reason to <em>not</em> talk to him again so he makes his way over, fixing up his jacket that has become as dirty as the boy’s clothes.</p><p> The boy hears him this time and regards him with sharp eyes. “It’s not raining tonight,” he notes.</p><p> Semi sits in front of him. “I still have nowhere else to be.”</p><p> The boy seems to understand the sentiment and says nothing, going back to his book instead.</p><p> The evening light eventually disappears and the boy only looks up to light the lantern before he keeps scribbling as if he never stopped. Semi has no right to be disgruntled at being ignored – not anymore – but he is. Something about this annoys him. Well, everything about everything annoys him nowadays, he supposes.</p><p> “That’s not how you spell ‘liquorice’,” he says and points the word on paper. “And it doesn’t taste good either.”</p><p> The boy glowers at him. “I wouldn’t know.”</p><p> “You’re in a library. Shouldn’t you try to learn?”</p><p> A giant blob of ink appears on the paper where the boy has put pressed his fountain into. “You’re in a library. Shouldn’t you be quiet?”</p><p> Eita’s lined-up retort is cut off by the growl of his stomach, echoing in the empty room. He tries to immediately apologise but remembers in time that he doesn’t need to. No one cares. The boy certainly doesn’t because he’s already writing again, shutting out the world.</p><p> Eita leans his head on the table and grinds his teeth in hunger. He falls asleep far too quickly but when he wakes, there’s a slip of paper in front of him. It reads:</p><p> <em>The baker on George Avenew throws away stale bread sometimes.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>924</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Many years ago in a city filled with smoke, a young girl lived with her big family. They shared their plates and their cloths. They colected wood to burn in the autum and livened up their little house with flowers in the spring. At Christmas, they’d gather by a tree with home made decorations and the sound of their carols would drift merrily down the street. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> Tonight, Eita couldn’t make it into the library before everyone leaves but when he tries the doors after sunset, he finds them unlocked. He slips inside and if any urchins on the streets notice, they pretend they don’t and stay well away. In the past few days, Eita has come to learn that people are more afraid of ghosts than he ever realised. He firmly believes ghosts only exist in the minds of the unhinged.</p><p> As expected, the boy is already sitting at his spot, lantern lit. He scowls when Eita makes his way inside, eyeing the thing in his hands.</p><p> “Food is not permitted inside the library,” he says but his eyes are shining, never once leaving the loaf of bread Eita holds.</p><p> “Oh, I’d say it’s more paperweight than food.” To make his point, Eita drops the loaf onto the table with a clunk. “And it’s for you, as a thank you.”</p><p> “You shouldn’t have,” the boy deadpans.</p><p> Eita can’t help but snort.</p><p> “No, I’m serious. You wasted your efforts.”</p><p> He shrugs. “More for me, then.”</p><p> He tugs in as much as one could tug into a rock-hard loaf of bread without losing teeth. That is to say, not very well but it’s all his stomach has seen in the past few days so he must make do. The boy watches him eat with a frown.</p><p> “Why do you keep coming back?” he asks, which Eita thinks is highly hypocritical of him.</p><p> “A roof over my head is a far too tempting thing to decline. Why are <em>you</em> always here? Do you live here?”</p><p> A second of staring stretches into two and then three and the boy’s hazel eyes seems to become more and more transparent by the minute. “I stay here at night. Like you said; a roof over my head is tempting.”</p><p> Eita asks, “You are not afraid of the ghost that apparently haunts this place?”</p><p> “Are you?”</p><p> “There are worse things to be afraid of than ghosts.”</p><p>  The boy seems momentarily taken aback, speechless, before his dry lips thin into a smile. “I’m Kenjirou.”</p><p> “I’m Eita.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>930</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Once upon a time, there lived a man who grew lillies and gave to whoever asked for some. He treated them with care and loved to see them be appreshiated by others too. There was, however, one particular lady who wanted to give lillies to but she never asked for them. After months of longingly watching her pass by, he finally grew the courage to give her some. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> Eita dreams of a mansion and rose bushes. In these dreams, he wears a new coat that hugs him nicely and a cape lined with gold embroidery, his hat rimmed with the finest silk money can buy. Sometimes he dreams of a boy with hair like ebony and a smile like Adonis. It makes Eita want to kiss that smile off his face and punch it at the same time.</p><p> He wakes up from a fitful sleep and tenses before he remembers that there is a lantern light and beyond that is Kenjirou, writing as usual. He glances up briefly but his hand never ceases moving.</p><p> “Nightmare?”</p><p> “Something like that.”</p><p> It must be early hours of the morning because the lantern is burning low now and the sky is becoming the slightest shades lighter outside the windows. Eita slaps himself awake.</p><p> “You’re not finished yet?” he asks.</p><p> “I had some distractions.” This is accompanied by an accusatory glare. “Are you aware that you snore?”</p><p> “Perfectly.”</p><p> “I’m almost done. Just… One… More… Sentence…” Kenjirou finishes with a heavy dot at the end of a jaggedly written sequence of words, handwriting worse than usual. “Done.”</p><p> Eita looks over at the pages. For all that he writes, Kenjirou never seems to use up any paper at all. The very first night he stumbled upon him, the book had been filled halfway. Many nights later, it hasn’t progressed further nor has his pen run out of ink.</p><p> “Why are you always writing?” Eita asks.</p><p> “I want to tell a thousand stories.”</p><p> Eita leans over to look at the number atop the page. “What happens when you finish a thousand?”</p><p> “I will have no regrets.”</p><p> Eita almost snorts if not for the absolute conviction in Kenjirou’s voice. The boy is perhaps only a year or so younger than him, which would make him about seventeen years old, but he speaks with the sort of innocence and naivety only children are truly capable of. Eita himself doesn’t know much about life, as he has recently discovered, but the one thing he’s learnt is that regret is the most abundant thing in the world. Not money, not all the grains of sand in the universe. Regret.</p><p> “That makes one of us,” he says. He runs his fingers through his hair and they catch in the knots formed from dirt, grime and blood. He needs to find a lake somewhere and maybe steal a bar of soap.</p><p> Kenjirou cocks his head curiously, eyes seemingly paler than when the night began but maybe it’s the trick of the light. “What do you regret?”</p><p> “That’s my own story, one I have no intention of sharing.”</p><p> Kenjirou hums and shuts his book. “Maybe my next story will be about a boy with secrets.”</p><p> “I dread to think how it will go.”</p><p> “I can tell you right now.”</p><p> Eita blinks at him, thoughts churning. He’s flirted with trouble enough to know Kenjirou is suddenly looking like one right now. And Eita has never been good at resisting temptation.</p><p> He leans forward. “Go on.”</p><p> Kenjirou looks at the lantern and at the sky outside, biting the corner of his lip as if he sees something waiting for him out there. He’s more skittish than usual, rolling his pen between his fingers. “Another night,” he says.</p><p> He picks up everything but the lantern before he leaves, but he doesn’t go to the front of the library. He shuffles towards the back, disappearing between ceiling-high shelves on soundless feet.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>935</em>
</p><p>
  <em> There once lived a girl who could fix anything. Bicycles, vases, clocks, carrages, if she could touch, she could fix. However, the one thing she could not fix was her mother, who was very ill. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> The Lancashire Academy for Boys has a long path that divides a small forest before it comes to a clearing and buildings that Eita knows well. The surrounding brick walls have spikes erected above them for more than decoration and patrol officers guard the enormous iron gates alongside two crouching gargoyles.</p><p> The academy is in the country and Eita has not stepped foot within a twenty-mile radius of that place in weeks but the memory of walking down that path in his navy blue uniform, swinging off his friends’ shoulders, is forever etched into his mind. There’s a book in the school library that he read well. He’s not sure how it has been allowed to come into existence nor anyone’s knowledge of it but he found it hidden in the stacks of old books put aside to be donated.</p><p> He tries to find it in Kenjirou’s library where he’s sought refuge every night since that stormy one but his attempts are in vain. He slumps into his chair, clicking his tongue in disappointment.</p><p> “Didn’t find it?” Kenjirou asks.</p><p> “No.”</p><p> “That’s a shame. If only there’s some place where you <em>know</em> you will find it.”</p><p> Eita frowns at him but Kenjirou is too busy scribbling again. Suddenly his nose scrunches and he peeks up at Eita without lifting his head.</p><p> “Did you find those clothes in the sewers?”</p><p> “No.” He found then in a rubbish tip.</p><p> But in all fairness, Eita isn’t exactly a mountain of wealth at this moment, seeing as he’s breaking into a haunted library for a place to sleep. He doesn’t have the luxury of buying anything and the last time he attempted to swipe clothes from a line resulted in something he’s not so proud of – not that he’s proud of stealing in the first place. That would’ve earned him at least ten lashes at Lancashire.</p><p> “You should find a job,” Kenjirou suggests.</p><p> “What a great idea. I hadn’t thought about that at all.”</p><p> Kenjirou takes his eyes off Eita to roll them deep into his skull. He’s particularly good at that. “You’ll never survive out there like this.”</p><p> He sounds like he’s going to say more but he only goes back to writing.</p><p> “What do you do?” Eita asks. “During the day, I mean. Where do you go?”</p><p> Eita only ever sees Kenjirou disappear into the back of the library every morning and honestly, he hasn’t cared enough to find out what exactly Kenjirou does back there. The way he sees it, they simply happen to share the same public space out of convenience and the general homelessness. And they talked some nights when boredom prevails and sleep doesn’t come easy for Eita.</p><p> “I sleep,” Kenjirou answers. “I go somewhere and sleep.”</p><p> “When do you eat? Or bathe? I have never seen you in anything other than these clothes. How do they not smell?”</p><p> “I wash them in the morning and I hang it up during the day while I sleep. Why are you so talkative today? It’s annoying. You should make a business out of that. You’re very good at it.”</p><p> Says the one who’s spewed all of that in one breath, not looking up once. Looks like Eita isn’t the only with a story of his own. “I’m bored,” he says instead, “and when one is bored, one looks for entertainment.”</p><p> “Look for a job.”</p><p> Eita goes to look for a book with the only story that has ever interested him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>941</em>
</p><p>
  <em> In a small country town, there once lived a boy who dreamed of falling in love. All his friends fell in love with pretty girls, one by one, until he was the only one left. One day, a new family moved to the town and among them was a boy with starlight in his hair. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> Eita finds a job at a tavern as an occasional kitchenhand, but mainly he is some poor imitation of a musician there. The piano is missing keys and is out of tune and he has to use his first pennies to fix it with make-shift keys of wood and strings made from thread. It doesn’t work so he has to disgrace the good names of Bach and Mozart by modifying their music to accommodate this sorry excuse of a piano.</p><p> It doesn’t pay much but he does manage to charm the ladies into dropping tips into his pockets and the waitresses to sneak him some leftovers when the tavern owner isn’t watching.</p><p> When he plays, it’s hard to shake the chill from his bones, hard not imagine a grand hall and glittering chandeliers. He watches the patrons to keep himself grounded in reality, playing well into the night. He doesn’t go back to the library for a few nights, sleeping on the floor of the kitchen.</p><p> But tonight is particularly cold with the long-lingering presence of winter and he can’t sleep so he finds himself at the library for the first time in a week.</p><p> It could be the trick of the light or Eita’s own imagination but he swears Kenjirou’s eyes become brighter when he sees him.</p><p> “Where have you been?” he asks, quickly closing the book.</p><p> “I found a job.” Eita tells him about the tavern and the piano and Kenjirou actually gives him full attention for once.</p><p> “Where did you learn to play the piano?”</p><p> Eita gives a one-shoulder shrug, feigning nonchalance anyone would see right through. “Despite how it may seem, I wasn’t actually born a street rat.”</p><p> “Oh, no,” Kenjirou says. “I don’t believe for a second that you grew up on the streets.”</p><p> “Thank you?”</p><p> “It’s not a compliment. I actually thought you died.”</p><p> Eita makes a face but honestly, that’s a fair judgement to make. If not for Kenjirou’s help in trying to find decent food, he might’ve died of starvation in the first week.</p><p> “Are you from the streets?” Eita asks him.</p><p> “Something like that.” He does not elaborate further and instead asks, “How did you end up like this?”</p><p> “Expelled and disowned.”</p><p> As someone drawn to stories, this makes Kenjirou’s eyes truly light up in a way Eita has never seen before. He asks why and for all that Eita has tried to not think about his recent misfortunes, he can’t help but want to share with Kenjirou. It doesn’t seem like the boy has anyone else to relay to and further destroy what little reputation and pride Eita has left.</p><p> “How about you tell me the story you’re writing first,” he suggests.</p><p>Kenjirou looks down at book in front of him. His teeth worry at his bottom lip and Eita would think he’s blushing but his face is as pale as ever. Almost translucent. “If I tell you,” he says, looking dead at Eita with unnerving, glassy eyes, “you have to promise to keep coming back. Here. I-I mean, to the library.”</p><p> An interesting request from a boy who barely cared what Eita does around him. “I promise.”</p><p> Kenjirou inhales sharply then sighs. “It’s about a boy who falls in love with another boy.”</p><p> <em>Oh.</em></p><p> He keeps going, “But they can’t be together because the other boy loves someone else.”</p><p> “A girl?”</p><p> “No.”</p><p> Eita breathes in and his mind keeps repeating, <em>Oh</em> like a clock striking midnight. “Is that the only reason?”</p><p> “It is.”</p><p> “Do they get together in the end?”</p><p> “I haven’t written it.”</p><p> “Will they?”</p><p> Kenjirou blinks at him, both of them barely breathing. “Do you want them to?” he whispers.</p><p> “I do,” Eita whispers back.</p><p> “Then they’ll get married.”</p><p> “That’s a nice fantasy.”</p><p> “Perhaps one day it won’t be a fantasy.”</p><p> Perhaps. Eita doesn’t speak for the rest of the night and neither does Kenjirou. There’s only the scratch of pen on paper and Eita’s shallow breathing as he falls asleep watching the way Kenjirou’s hazel eyes are both bright and pale at the same time. Eita thinks he would like to paint him, when he can afford to buy some equipment.</p><p> He falls asleep to the thought of saying ‘I do’ at a church but instead of a dark-haired boy, he thinks it might be nice to say it to the one in front of him now.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>948</em>
</p><p> <em>There was an old man who lived in a little house that swayed with the winds. He only owned a fair few things but the one he treshered most was a wooden horse carved for him by his daughter who was separated from him. He beleived that as long as he put the horse in the window where she would see, they’d one day be united.</em></p><p> </p><p> Eita lies on the library floor and listens as Kenjirou tells tonight’s story. He’s already finished writing half before Eita arrived but he stops writing to tell it instead, like he’s been doing since that night.</p><p> “So the old man gave the wooden horse to the little girl even though it means that his daughter might never find her way home again,” he finishes.</p><p> Eita feels somehow on the verge of tears and leaping with joy, both at once. He’s noticed that Kenjirou’s stories tend to have that effect on him. It’s not that he has a particular way with words. Eita has read far more advanced literature but the simplicity of things Kenjirou say seeps into him so easily.</p><p> “Your stories are so…” he looks for the right word but the only one he seems to be able to think about is, “ordinary.” </p><p> Kenjirou frowns so Eita jumps in to fix his words. “I mean, you always tell stories about ordinary people yet I am always touched.”</p><p> “If these people are ordinary, then who are extraordinary?”</p><p> Eita opens his mouth to answer but stops to really think. Who <em>are</em> extraordinary? Queens? Kings? Scientists? Artisans? No, that isn’t the point.</p><p> “No one,” he answers.</p><p> Kenjirou nods with the tiniest smile of satisfaction of a professor whose student passed with flying colours. It is absolutely breathtaking. Eita wonders what it would be like if he smiled widely and unabashedly.</p><p> “I don’t think anyone is either ordinary or extraordinary,” Kenjirou says earnestly. “But we all have stories to tell, some more than others. Some bad, some good.”</p><p> The words stay with Eita in the coming nights when he plays at the tavern. He looks at the patrons and starts to see more than bodies packed into a room stinking of ale and boiled potatoes. He sees the man with a feathered top hat and thinks perhaps his limp comes from a hunting accident. Maybe the woman with the chipped tooth hides insecurities behind her hearty laugh. Maybe that red-haired young man looks out the window, mind with his lover instead of the company around him.</p><p> What a beautiful way to see the world.</p><p> Eita doesn’t mind the ache in his fingers too much anymore.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>952</em>
</p><p>
  <em> There once was an astronamer who had a son and a daughter. They both studied the cosmos together under his guidance. One day, the daughter made a discovery that could shake the world of astronamy itself. The son, green in jealousy, stole her findings and published them himself. When the girl claimed that it was she who solved a cosmic mistery, no one believed her.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> “Every day, the girl’s heart burns hotter and hotter with rage, bitterness and the need to destroy everything her brother stole from her. But one day, she falls ills and the best doctors and the best medicine can’t heal her. She’s bedbound for months and months, unable to sleep or eat or think of anything but the betrayal. Eventually, from the verge of death, she becomes tired of holding so much anger inside her that she forgives her brother, and before long, she is well again,” Kenjirou finishes tonight’s story.</p><p> He lies beside Eita on the floor tonight, his book and pen long abandoned on the table. The time is well past midnight and exhaustion threatens to drag Eita into the deepest depths of sleep but the final sentence has him more awake than ever.</p><p> “She forgives him?” he asks incredulously, turning to Kenjirou. “That’s ridiculous! He ruined her life. He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven.”</p><p> Kenjirou shrugs as much as he can while lying down, eyes on the ceiling. “She doesn’t forgive him because he deserves it. She forgives because she wants peace for herself.”</p><p> Eita presses his mouth into a thin line. “I would not.”</p><p> "I know.”</p><p> With those two simple words, Kenjirou seems to strip away every wall of protection Eita has started to put around himself. It’s a strange thing to feel seen when other isn’t even looking. It’s borderline unpleasant but never quite steps beyond simply ‘strange’.</p><p> Eita says, “I don’t much like this story.”</p><p> Kenjirou shrugs again, not rising to the bait Eita set to lighten the mood. He’s quiet tonight. Quiet and distant like his mind is miles away. Eita wants to slide closer and trace the graceful slope of his nose with a finger and along the pretty arch of his lips. He’s never done that before, to anyone. He wonders if it will feel as nice as he imagines.</p><p> Eita sighs. He’s too tired, having rubbed the grimy pots until his hands bled from the rough bristles of the brush digging into his skin. He’d washed the wounds clean but he had nothing except the clothes on his body to use as dressing and, well, he likes having clothes on him. Spring has finally arrived but the nights are still cold.</p><p> He doesn’t realise that he’s closed his eyes until he feels something on his cheek and jerks with a gasp. Kenjirou immediately withdraws his hand to his chest. He lies facing Eita now, watching with wary eyes like he might be scolded any second.</p><p> “You’re so cold,” Eita says quietly. He reaches out for Kenjirou’s freezing hand and gently places it back on his face.</p><p> “I always am,” Kenjirou breathes.</p><p> Eita keeps the hand there for a while but it doesn’t get any warmer. It’s okay, though, he thinks. It’s okay because Kenjirou is looking at him – really truly looking at him for the first time and he never wants it to end.</p><p> “I have to tell you something,” Kenjirou whispers.</p><p> Eita nods but doesn’t dare blink lest Kenjirou stops looking.</p><p> “There was a boy who grew up in an orphanage,” he starts. “He knew he was always different to the other boys because while they ran around and played, the boy would stick by the caretaker, a monk called Father Washijou. He was a kind man who took care of the boy and taught him to read and write. The boy grew up listening to the Father’s stories and he dreamed of telling his own but no one would listen.”</p><p> Eita slowly sucks in a breath in realisation. Kenjirou’s eyes have fallen to Eita’s chest but he likely is not seeing anything in this room right now.</p><p> He continues, “One day, when the boy was thirteen years old, Father Washijou passed away. Without his honest and faithful leadership, the orphanage fell apart and it was closed down. The boy had to live on the street and he had no time to grieve. He fought tooth and claw for scraps of food and swiped from pockets for pennies even though Father Washijou taught him better and guilt tore at him. He had to learn to survive on his own but one winter, he fell ill.”</p><p> Eita grips the hand on his cheek tighter, as if subconsciously trying to ground them both but Kenjirou has looked up again, staring into the pit of Eita’s soul. He is more grounded than he has been this entire evening but Eita is not. He thinks he knows what’s coming and he will not like it.</p><p> Kenjirou speaks again, voice unwavering. “He died on a lonely street corner but when Death came for him, he begged for one single thing for the first time in his life of having nothing. Death granted him his final wish, giving him a thousand nights to tell a thousand stories.”</p><p> Eita is shaking, trembling on the floor but he knows about Kenjirou. A part of him has always known. He’s just been willingly blind to all the signs, refusing to accept that the only person who might truly understand him, the one who’s come to mean so much to him is dead.</p><p> “Are you afraid of me now?” Kenjirou asks, looking for all the world like he’s ready to disappear forever if Eita asks.</p><p> So he holds him tighter, pulling his hand down to his chest. “I have never been afraid of you and I never will be.”</p><p> Kenjirou gives that tiny smile that knocks the air out of Eita’s breath. In unspoken tandem, they draw towards each other across the polished floor, foreheads resting on the other’s, cool and warm breaths mingling in what little space remains between them. Eita succumbs to exhaustion as he holds Kenjirou but come morning, his only company is the lantern.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>964</em>
</p><p> Eita saves up enough to buy a thin blanket. It’s full of moth holes and smell of many scents far too infused together to tell apart but it’s better than nothing. He takes it into the library but Kenjirou isn’t at his usual spot. Eita heads for the back to climb the narrow flight of stairs that leads up to the roof and finds him sitting in the dark, book and pen abandoned in front of him.</p><p> “’Evening,” Kenjirou says without taking his eyes off the cloudy sky.</p><p> Eita wraps the blanket around his shoulders, making him jump in surprise. He peers at the newly appeared sheet as if he has been unaware of a blanket’s existence his entire life. Then he frowns when Eita sits beside him, wrapping one arm around him.</p><p> “Where did you get this?”</p><p> “I bought it.”</p><p> Kenjirou grumbles, “Blankets don’t help. You wasted your money. And this smells like piss anyway.”</p><p> Eita clears his throat and pitches his voice higher to say, “‘Why, thank you, sir! I do so appreciate your kindness!’”</p><p> Kenjirou shoves him to the floor but he’s smothering a smile as he tugs the blanket tighter. Eita laughs too and pulls him back into his arms. He knows it doesn’t help chase away Kenjirou’s cold. Nothing does. But it’s become routine for both of them to pretend that this is more than a temporary fantasy, that the day Eita would only find an empty library will never come.</p><p> That they aren’t waiting for the inevitable.</p><p> “What’s tonight’s story?” he asks, leaning in to read the book but atop the page, only the number is written.</p><p> “I got tired of writing so I decided to just tell you instead.”</p><p> Eita blinks. “You really believe I will always come?”</p><p> “Won’t you?”</p><p> “Of course I will.”</p><p> “Then why do you ask?”</p><p> <em>Because I didn’t know you trusted me so much.</em> He chokes on the words so he has to settle for, “A little surprised, is all. Go on. Tell me the story.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>972</em>
</p><p> Eita’s dreams move from mansions to forests to puddles on the roof of the library and pretty eyes obscured by copper hair until all his dreams dissolve to a small, cold body in his arms. Sometimes he dreams of stars and putting them in a jar for Kenjirou to use as a lantern, to count them every night and know exactly what Eita would do for him.</p><p> He doesn’t forget about the neatly-trimmed rose bushes and the stone gargoyles over a tall brick wall. He doesn’t forget about landing flat on cobblestone covered in muddy snow or eyes that tore him apart to nothing. But it becomes easier to breathe if he remembers Kenjirou, who too was nothing but refused to let that put out the light in his eyes.</p><p> And when he plays renowned pieces of music that have now become his own, it’s easier to breathe too and the cuts on his hands no longer reopen and bleed.</p><p> Then the boy with ebony hair and smile like Adonis comes into the tavern with raucous company that belong in gambling dens and not the prestigious Lancashire Academy. He sees Eita and Eita sees him and he misses a note. The boy pretends he does not know him.</p><p> Eita thinks of breaking a glass and sinking the shards into the boy’s neck. He thinks of throwing him out onto the cobblestone streets and spit in his face and call him sodomite for all to hear. But then Eita thinks of a girl in her sickbed and the way Kenjirou said, “I know.”</p><p> He breathes in. He breathes out. He flexes his fingers, cut and calloused, over a mistreated piano with missing teeth. And he keeps playing.</p><p> </p><p> Later that night, he lies in Kenjirou’s lap and listens to a story about a kite maker who dreams of flying. When he’s finished, Kenjirou cards gentle fingers through Eita’s hair.</p><p> “I forgave today,” Eita says.</p><p> Kenjirou smiles, widely and unabashedly, and he is impossibly beautiful. “I’m proud of you.”</p><p> “He does not deserve it.”</p><p> “They rarely do.”</p><p> Sometimes Eita dreams of pulling Kenjirou out of the bony grips of Death.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>980</em>
</p><p> Spring gives way to summer faster than it came. Heat sets in, boiling hot during the day which Eita spends in the kitchen. Flies flitter all around the cramped space and he allocates half his time swatting them off himself or off food. It’s filthy. But worse still is that days stretch long and his time with Kenjirou is cut too early when the sun already starts peaking at five in the morning.</p><p> But Eita is late again tonight, well past one by the time he arrives at the library. He hugs a jar to his chest as he skips up two steps at a time to find Kenjirou where he always is, wrapped in the blanket despite the warm night. The lantern is unlit and his book is closed as if he believes there is no chance he will not have an audience to tell tonight’s story to. He smiles when Eita appears.</p><p> “Sorry,” he apologises immediately between pants. “Got caught up with something.”</p><p> Kenjirou peers at the jar in Eita’s hand. “Are those…fireflies?”</p><p> “They are. I saw them outside the tavern and I thought it might’ve been a while since you last saw them.”</p><p> “It has been.”</p><p> He gently takes the jar from Eita and holds it up in front of him with a smile. The bugs’ glow is nothing as magical as Eita had intended for it to be and Kenjirou is still pale and small under the light of a crescent moon. Sometimes Eita looks at him and thinks maybe he’s become paler, more translucent and at any second, Eita’s hand might pass right through him and not feel his cool skin. Sometimes his imagination runs wild and fear strikes him so hard he has to hold Kenjirou tighter just to make sure he is still here. </p><p> He does it now, laying a hand on Kenjirou’s knee and his tense shoulders unwind in relief when he still feels the bony leg beneath his hand.</p><p> “Thank you,” Kenjirou says, setting the jar on the floor.</p><p> “I’m glad you like it because you have no idea how hard these little buggers are to catch.”</p><p> A snort. “In all honesty, I like roses better. Father Washijou grew them at the orphanage and I used to help tend to them.”</p><p> Eita flicks his forehead. “There’s no pleasing you, is there?”</p><p> Kenjirou flicks him back just as hard. “It’s your own fault for starting something you can’t finish.”</p><p> It really is. Eita sighs. “I suppose I will have to pluck a few on the way tomorrow.”</p><p> Kenjirou stares at him for two heartbeats, unreadable as always. Then he leans over and presses a cold kiss to Eita’s flushed cheek, just like that. When he pulls away, Eita is stunned frozen in place while Kenjirou grins, as radiant as the sun itself.</p><p> “I have no need for flowers or fireflies,” he says.</p><p> Eita understands. He leans over and presses a kiss to Kenjirou’s lips.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>987</em>
</p><p> Sometimes Eita runs errands for the tavern owner. Sometimes those errands take him back to a part of the city he swore to never set foot in again, past homes with balconies of climbing flowers, past beautiful fountains with stone statues, past mansions with rose bushes. If he had passed by two months ago, he might’ve kept walking without ever lifting his head, desperate to pretend none of this was real.</p><p> But now he pauses and looks on through the iron-wrought fence, past the rose bushes and at the white mansion that lies beyond. He imagines what its residents would be doing at this time of the day. Maybe the lady plays the piano. Maybe the gentleman is out on business. The chef would cook supper and the maids would dust the mantle and the bookshelves while the gardener pulls weed from the pond around the back of the mansion.</p><p> Now Eita can look on and allow himself to <em>feel</em> and still walk ahead with his pride intact.</p><p> At night when he and Kenjirou are curled in each other’s arms after a story, Eita asks, “Why do you never ask about me?”</p><p> “I didn’t think it was important but if you want to tell me, I want to hear.”</p><p> Eita wants to tell. “I used to go to a boarding school out in the country, about twenty miles from here. My parents expected me to eventually study business at Oxford or the likes and take over the family business, so my father thought a school with other boys who would inherit their father’s business might motivate me to study instead of fiddling with pianos or violins all the time.</p><p>“Boarding school did indeed give me an epiphany but not the one my family was hoping for.” He grins at Kenjirou. “Guess what it was.”</p><p> Kenjirou grins back and kisses him in answer.</p><p> “Exactly,” Eita say. “There was this boy there who was everything I thought I ever wanted. He was funny and charming and personable and he liked music as much as I do. I thought he liked me too, enough to make something work between us.”</p><p> All traces of amusement gone, Kenjirou’s cups his cheek with cold hands, drawing Eita’s eyes back up to him. <em>It’s okay</em>, his eyes say.</p><p> “One day, we were caught,” Eita continues, “and the first thing he did was go to the headmaster and lie about how I forced myself onto him and <em>defiled</em> him.”</p><p> Kenjirou frowns in absolute disgust. “They believed him?”</p><p> “He’s a snake, Kenjirou. He knows people and how to get what he wants out of them so in everyone’s eyes, he was an angel. Not to mention the fact that I’d earned myself somewhat of a reputation for being a ‘hothead’ and I had made off-hand comments in the past about my attraction so of course, people believed him. So did my parents and they threw me out with nothing left to my name.”</p><p> However carefully Eita tried to soften his tone, Kenjirou still sees right through him. He brushes Eita’s hair back and says, “You are allowed to feel hurt.”</p><p> “I am hurt, and I am angry too. But I’ve decided that I won’t use my anger to hurt them back but to make myself better. I still dream of performing at the Canterbury Music Hall and compose music the likes of Beethoven and Mozart. I’ve simply come across a rather large obstacle to overcome.”</p><p> “If you have decided to overcome it, you’re already halfway there.”</p><p> Eita chuckles and nuzzles closer. “How does all that glorious wisdom sprout in that tiny body of yours?”</p><p> “Being dead and alone for two years tend to put a lot of things into perspective.”</p><p> “Ah, death and solitude. That’ll do it.”</p><p> Kenjirou laughs and they both pretend their days aren’t numbered.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>993</em>
</p><p> In the morning, Eita visits the corner where Kenjirou died. He doesn’t know why. His feet take him there and he stands staring at the cracks in the pavement where grass and weed now grow, strong and green despite everything that stands in their way. He can’t help but imagine a pile of snow that collects overnight and beneath it, a boy with so much life that will never get lived.</p><p> Eita sits at that corner and his shoulders shake with all the tears he’s saved up for himself, now for Kenjirou and all of it washes over him at once.</p><p> At night, when Kenjirou asks, he says his bloodshot eyes are from the kitchen’s smoke. Kenjirou says his hands are made of gold. They both lie.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>999</em>
</p><p> Kenjirou’s story tonight is about two lovers separated by circumstance. Years later, they meet again on a fateful evening on a bridge that connects one side of the city to the other, and one heart to the another.</p><p> The stars twinkle above as Eita listens and aches and thinks about the darkness between the stars, about how infinitely far they truly are. How many years it has taken for their light to reach him. He barely hears Kenjirou’s voice over his own thoughts and can’t help but feel like this story is some kind of promise. <em>I love you</em>, he wants to say and make promises of his own.</p><p> But he won’t because that would mean it is the end. Not yet.</p><p> Kenjirou is so very pale now and Eita is afraid to blink, afraid to breathe lest the boy in his arms suddenly slips through into nothingness. Eita thinks he’s gotten a grip on himself this past week, has come to terms with having to let go. He will not know for sure until tomorrow morning.</p><p> “What are you thinking?” Kenjirou whispers.</p><p> “About how beautiful you are.”</p><p> “I have mud in my hair and dirt beneath my nails.”</p><p> “You are beautiful,” Eita repeats and lays his hand on Kenjirou’s chest, “right here.” His nose. “And here.” His mouth. “Here too. And here.”</p><p> Kenjirou sighs with a shake of his head. “If you are to touch every part of me you find beautiful, we might be here all night.”</p><p> “Maybe two,” Eita says. “There are parts of you I have not even seen yet.”</p><p> If Kenjirou could blush, he would be the prettiest shades of red. Eita kisses him, slow and deep and breathes him in and Kenjirou clings to him tight.</p><p> “I wish time can stop,” Eita murmurs.</p><p> Kenjirou hums. He has not stopped smiling softly like everything is all right. Eita almost wishes he would but he doesn’t tell him to because this smile is as genuine as everything else about him.</p><p> “Tell me a story,” Kenjirou says.</p><p> “I’m no good at telling stories.”</p><p> “Tell me anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>1000</em>
</p><p> Eita arrives at the library at midnight, heart thundering, fingers cold. It is dark and empty and draughty, polished floorboards <em>thud-thud-thudding</em> with each echoing footstep. Kenjirou is not at the table so Eita heads to the back where a familiar stairway takes him up to the roof where the closest thing to magic happens each night.</p><p> Kenjirou is not here either, but on the floor is a folded blanket with a dozen moth holes and upon it, an unlit lantern awaits beside a book with the pen stuck between its pages. Next to that is an open jar with its lid laid beside it.</p><p> Eita breathes, long and slow and he already knows what’s coming before he flips the book open to read the messy scrawl that has become an anchor for his heart. When he finishes, he gives the stars a watery smile, then gathers all but the lantern in his arms and leaves quietly, the library at his back, the long road in front.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dear Eita,</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Remember when I told you about the boy at the orphanage? I told you two stories that night so I suppose my time is up a day early. Sorry I didn’t tell you, but know that I was very happy last night, and all the nights I spent with you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I have been alone for a very long time, even before I died. I told the stories that I did because I saw the worst of humanaty and I dreamed of something better. Then you came along and showed me the best; love. You lit a fire within me and kept me warm with your love. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Some say that Death shows no mercy but she is kinder than most realise. She gave me the chance to meet you. These months with you have been the happiest of my life and I did not want us to end sadly because we are not a sad story.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> In this book are pages left unfilled. Do with it what you will. Write your music. Your thoughts. Your stories. I would love to hear them all. Use the jar for what you wish. Fireflies, flowers, rocks. I will love all because I am pleased with whatever you pick. Wrap the blanket around you on cold, lonely nights. I will keep you warm the way that you did me. And leave the lantern at the library so other lost souls may meet the way that we did. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Never stop loving. Never stop forgiving. Never stop dreaming. And above all;</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Live a life worth a thousand stories.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Love, Kenjirou</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Um. Yeah. </p><p> If you made it this far, I am once again very sorry but please have my sincerest gratitude for reading. Kudos and comments are always very much appreciated and you can also yell at me on twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/casastella_">@casastella_</a>.</p><p>edit: I should mention here that this fic is a result of me re-reading The Song of Achilles, The Fault in Our Stars and In Another Life all in one week.</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673339">frozen fingers</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/krystian/pseuds/krystian">krystian</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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